


Like a Bright Exhalation in the Evening, part 9

by raedbard



Series: Like a Bright Exhalation in the Evening [9]
Category: The West Wing
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2007-08-21
Updated: 2007-08-21
Packaged: 2017-10-06 23:14:44
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,713
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/58794
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/raedbard/pseuds/raedbard
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>In which things are more than usually about words, such as: censure, intimacy - appropriate and otherwise, 'strong leader', father, love/r, and there is friendship and dancing, some things done under the influence of alcohol, mourning the draft and nothing is solved.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Like a Bright Exhalation in the Evening, part 9

**Author's Note:**

> From 3.11 'H.Con-172' to immediately before 3.14 'Night Five'.

1.

"What _exactly_ does it say?"

"That you and I are ... That we ... You know what it is says."

"No, I don't. That's why I'm asking you."

"Toby, doesn't my extreme agitation give you a clue?"

Toby's eyebrows jump up, just a little. "Yes."

"What are we going to do?"

"Read me the thing."

"Toby, I -- "

"Read it to me. I don't want to read it. You read it to me."

Sam sighs.

"Read it to me."

Sam's finger runs down the closed pages of the book as though he does not know exactly where to insert them, as though he hasn't already read this passage a hundred times.

"Okay, ready?"

"Will you just - ?"

"Okay, okay. Here goes: 'It is well known among those in the know in the Bartlet White House --' "

"Nice prose."

"Toby."

"I'm sorry. Carry on."

"'... that Toby Ziegler, the gloomy and ever-cynical Communications Director, has a perfect foil in his Deputy, naive but charming, Sam Seaborn. Like a latter-day Adams and Jefferson, the two writers are an uneasily passionate balance of opposites; one the struggling and disillusioned pragmatist, the other a flighty but inspired idealist. "

"He's got us just right so far," Toby says, wincing - at the prose, at the sentiment, at the fierceness in Sam's eyes.

"Will you shut up?"

Toby holds up his hands. Sam continues.

"However, what is not commonly known, inside or outside the walls of the West Wing, is the extent of the relationship enjoyed by the poets of the Bartlet administration. Ziegler's marriage to a prominent liberal Congresswoman failed some few months after he met Seaborn, whose own engagement crumbled soon afterwards. There has long been speculation that the close working partnership between the two has now replaced any possibility of a healthy relationship for either man and that the attachment is rather less based on idealism and finely crafted prose than it is on its after-hours exploits and certain establishments in Dupont Circle have been witness to growing intimacy of a different kind between Director and Deputy.

Bartlet's White House is one of the most liberal ever seen in America, but many have wondered just how far such sensibilities should be allowed to stretch, particularly between a pair with such weighty responsibilities as Ziegler and Seaborn.' And that's all I can stand. It goes on ... but that's really enough."

"Okay, Sam."

"Okay?"

"What do you want me to say?"

"We have to come down on this. We have to come down _hard_ on this!"

"And say what?"

"_Deny_ it, Toby!"

"You're comfortable doing that?"

"Look, I know it's a cliché, but sometimes there really _isn't_ any smoke without fire. I do not want to see _this_ in the next news cycle alongside pictures of wherever it was Leo went to rehab next to pictures of the hearings with a banner headline that reads 'The Fall of the Bartlet White House - the failing of liberal America'!"

"It was Sierra Tucson. And you won't."

"Toby ... "

"Sam, listen to me - the guy is a hack. No one is going to believe that you and I have passionate nights in the bars of Dupont Circle, for god's sake. There's a way to pull this stuff off, and this isn't it. Would you believe it?"

"If I didn't already know it was true?"

"If you didn't already know that _some_ of it is true. I for one have never set foot in any gay bar in Dupont Circle, for instance. With or without you. I mean for whatever value of 'true' you want to employ here."

"No, I probably wouldn't."

"So why are you freaking out?"

"Why _aren't_ you freaking out?"

"Because no-one is going to take this seriously."

"Josh is going to have a fit."

"Josh has already had a fit, Sam."

"Why aren't you concerned?"

"Because there are more worthy things to be concerned with."

"You aren't concerned with what people will say?"

"They'll laugh, Sam. They will laugh and they will mock you. Us ... I suppose. They won't _believe_ it. And even if they did, don't you think they know how to keep it to themselves?"

"Why are you talking me down from this?"

"Because if you go nuclear at your hearing it's not only your ass that gets fired."

"Nice mixing of metaphors there."

"Thank you."

"Toby ... "

"Sam, listen to me. Forget this guy."

"We'll always be that pair of guys. We'll always have people wondering whether there was anything in it. Whenever we're together ..."

"So what if we do?"

Sam shakes his head. " ... nothing."

"Sam ... "

"I know, I know."

"You want to hold me up a sign that says 'Four More Years', Sam? Or do you want this to be the thing?"

"Of course not ... "

"So, let the other thing go. Okay? Let this go."

"Didn't I already say yes?"

"With so much enthusiasm."

"You expect me to be happy about it?"

"No."

He opens his mouth as if to say more, as if to ask _do you miss me?_ or something worse, but shuts it again, and turns his eyes on the worn patch of carpet in front of Toby's desk. Toby is almost sorry that Sam has decided, so late in the day, to start doing as he's told.

"Sam," he says, letting the vowel grow long in his mouth.

"I'm onboard. I promise."

Toby nods. "Good."

"Anyway. I should go. I'm sure there was something I was meant to be doing that had some worth."

"Sam -- "

"I'll see you later, Toby."

He slams the door on his way out and Toby rubs the heel of his hand hard into his forehead.

*

There are seventeen days separating his declaration in Sam's bed and the day he moves out of Sam's place for good. This seems the right number to Toby. That Sam seems to know from day one, that he asks more than once if there is anything Toby has to tell him, does not make the leaving any harder; Toby doesn't think there is much of anything that could make the leaving harder. Sam spends the whole day smiling; Toby spends most of the day wanting to slap him until he stops. He finds he can't say anything until the sun has set, until night has set in.

It's the night he realises he doesn't have as much stuff as he thought - shirts, pants, underwear, toothbrush, his good copy of Lincoln's speeches which Sam borrows often enough that it might as well be his, papers he'd forgotten about and which no longer seem important, the key Sam slipped into his pocket the first time they shared the bed, the wedding ring he'd stopped wearing. Sam stands in the doorway of the bedroom with his arms folded across his chest and watches him as he gathers this small pile of affects, like a warder at the prison gates. Toby half expects him to ask for a signature.

It's the night he reaches out for the kid at the door and holds him tight, so tight that Sam can't struggle out of his arms and soon stops trying. It's the night that Sam's body becomes small again, and seems weak again and Toby presses kisses against the sighs in his mouth, figuring that the last time needs to count, remembering that the last kisses never count for enough.

It's the night he starts to hate the boy, just a little; for looking at him as though he wanted this all along and making Toby the one who has to say 'no' and 'we can't'. But he puts his hand on Sam's shoulder and squeezes it, just before goodbye, with the door open and the light making them a silhouette for anyone coming past in the street. So Toby makes it look like an ordinary goodbye between friends, and only his eyes can say _I'm sorry_.

It's the night he calls CJ and almost hangs up the phone as soon as she answers:

"Toby?"

" ... How do you always know it's me?"

"I recognise the sound of your breathing."

"Okay."

"You have a very distinctive sigh, Tobias."

"Okay."

"Really."

"I'm not disagreeing with you!"

"And yet you seem oddly distressed, mon ami."

"CJ ... " He takes a deep breath, and wonders for a moment if she can tell from the sound of the exhalation that what he is about to say doesn't mean what it seems. "Can I come over?"

She doesn't say anything except, "Sure."

He walks to her place, which isn't all that far from his own, which he'd forgotten, because it is a long way from Sam's. It's not raining or snowing; nothing like winter. In fact it's almost warm, like spring come four months early. Toby realises he's sweating when he has stopped at her door, just before he knocks. She calls through the door before he can raise his hand.

"Come in!"

He opens the door, and feels lighter just for seeing her. She is smiling and holds up a bottle of some appallingly cheap wine, waves it at him.

"I thought we'd need this."

"Your psychic powers are scaring me, CJ."

She smiles, different; tender. "I can tell a lot of things from your voice, Toby. Sit."

He opens his mouth - about to let it all tumble out because he's covered in sweat and he's tired and hungry and heartsick and because he can't help it - but she gets there first.

"You're going to say ... that you can't tell me what it's about, aren't you?"

"I wasn't, actually."

"Well, can I suggest that you keep the sentiment in mind?"

He raises his eyes to hers. She nods.

"Josh told you."

"No, he didn't, though he's about as good at keeping a secret as you are. I'm not stupid, Toby. And you two have been miserable and angry for a while now. And subtlety is not one of your virtues. Either of you."

"I've ... been the picture of indifference."

"Exactly."

"What?"

"You've been being ... _nice_ to him."

"I have not."

"No rubber balls, no orders, no staying after hours, no _sarcasm_."

" ... Okay."

"And I knew already."

"How?"

"If I say 'women's intuition', will you hold it against me?"

"I'd never let you forget it."

"Quite right too."

"When?"

"Or 'what', or perhaps 'why?' Is the meaning of life more than usually opaque for you, Toby?"

"CJ, please."

"Thanksgiving. And ... before that."

"After the shooting?"

"Yeah."

He sighs. "Well. I'll never doubt you again. In fact, if I ever have children I'll book you as a birthday party attraction. The Amazing Claudia Jean."

"I'm not suitable for a junior audience, Toby," she says, smiling. Then she stops smiling. "Are you okay?"

"I'm better than him."

"Which is why you're here with me, about to drink cheap wine and have some girl-talk?"

"CJ, please ... "

"No, no. You owe me. I mean, I know why you didn't tell me -- "

"Okay, CJ."

"Toby, are you all right?"

He nods. "Yes."

She nods, and he knows she is about as convinced as he is. "Okay, then." She reaches out for his hand, squeezes it tight. He nods again, tries to smile. He tries to make his face look impatient; unconcerned. He has no idea how well he succeeds. She leans in and kisses his cheek.

"You're to forget what I'm about to say as soon as I've said it, okay?"

"What?"

"It suited you ... Sam suited you."

Toby notes the past tense without another word, pours a glass of her horrible cheap wine, and drains it.

She is lighter when slightly drunk. She makes an abortive half-twirl round her kitchen floor with her hands spinning. She runs her fingers through her hair and flicks it away from her face, and her eyes are suddenly huge and dark. Toby sips his wine slowly and carefully and keeps his hands to himself. He is not in the business of temptation now and will not take a bite out of the apple she is offering him, even though it's CJ with her hand outstretched.

"You could at least dance with me, Toby. I'm not as drunk as I seem."

"Yes you are and no, I couldn't."

"Sure you could."

"There's no music playing."

"Well, that's not exactly a hard fix."

He gets up, leaving his glass on her coffee table. "What d'you want to listen to?"

"I'll -- "

"No, you won't. You'll scratch the discs."

"Toby!" She is grinning.

"You will. I can see it happening. What would you like to listen to?"

"Brubeck."

Toby grimaces, and hears a small noise of disgust form in his mouth.

"What? You're too cool for Brubeck?"

"_Everyone_ but you is too cool for Brubeck."

"You have no class, Toby. No class whatsoever."

"I'm well aware of it." He picks up the CD - there is only one which fits the description - and takes the thing out of its case carefully, balancing it with his finger through the hole, then slips it into her CD player. He stands and listens, for a moment. It is music which makes him melancholy without knowing the reason why; warm, colourful sound which reverberates in his throat and makes him wish he could cry, and then feel stupid, and then turn into her arms. She smiles at him and takes both his hands out of his pockets.

"Dance with me."

"You should move your couch."

"Perhaps later."

"Okay."

She wraps an arm around his waist, and she is much too tall and much too drunk despite her claims. But she is warm, and surprisingly steady. And she is sure. Toby tries not to lean on her, not too much.

"Tell Sam to quit worrying about that book, okay?"

"Yeah."

"I'll mention it tomorrow morning, first thing. Cregg special. That guy splattered all over the wall."

"Okay."

"Okay."

"It's impossible to dance to jazz."

"Yeah."

He sighs. "Yeah."

2.

It is a time of year Sam never believes is real until he's in the middle of it: the State of the Union months. They are chiefly made up of ingredients including but not limited to: pie, books, paper and ink, trying not to fall asleep in meetings he can't help thinking of as less important, a head full of phrases which become pedestrian and dissonant as soon as he tries to write them down, and Toby, shadowing his every step.

There is no avoiding him. There is no way they can not spend very nearly all the hours of every day in each other's company, or at least within a ball's throw distance. These few weeks which feel more like years they need each other: for Toby to suggest walks around the corridors or into the grounds, so long as it's not snowing; for Sam to offer to pay for the next cherry pie and find them some new cutlery from the mess because Toby has lost the last stolen fork underneath all the paper. And he needs Toby to pull the right words out of his head, to run a red line underneath the weakest part of his last effort, which he knew wasn't good enough, but wouldn't allow himself to cut because he could still taste the idea that his prose smothered. He's not sure what Toby needs him for, beyond the pie. Perhaps just a body who won't ask 'how's it going?'; perhaps just someone who knows where the dictionary goes; someone who understands the bitter, bleak colours of frustration and absolute exhaustion - the grey taste of stale coffee on your tongue and the red ache your legs have when you've been sitting for five hours straight bent over a laptop or a pad; being hungry but not wanting to eat, being dead tired but not allowed to sleep.

And beyond that, Sam doesn't know.

Except for the time he won't look for - the only other time he cannot believe really happens until it is happening: the way it feels to have your heart swell up with pride and relief; the speech itself and a minute or two afterwards. And the way they both fall in love all over again, every time. Not with each other, but with the only other person who really exists in this strange time which seems cut out from the rest of the year, with blunt scissors in stark silhouette: the President.

Sometimes they spend all day listening to him. Toby keeps the tapes of all his major addresses and they make a small, unmarked collection on his shelf, beside his desk. And Toby plays them, over and over, until they both go to sleep at night with Jed Bartlet voicing their small, unspoken thoughts and his pauses filling their silences. Sam dreams him in living colour and realises the next morning that he is speaking with a cadence which is familiar, yet not his own. He knows Toby does the same; he's caught Toby at it more than once.

Some days he isn't sure where he stops and Toby begins. They start to finish each other's sentences and are so tired that they are not self-conscious about it, not even this time when they probably ought to be. Long days and nights in the West Wing have long been enough to make him believe in an invisible umbilical cord which ties Toby to CJ to Josh to himself, stretched tight and made slick with familiarity and sarcasm and half-hourly trips to the mess and a closeness which is sometimes as good as telepathy. They have been _family_, he thinks, when they have had nothing else to so name. But Toby's position as oldest brother has blurred. He has smudged out his authoritarian streak with tenderness and Sam seems to have realised, somewhere, that he doesn't _have_ to take Toby's orders, that nothing will shatter if he stands up and says no. And Sam is unsettled by the change, as though he woke up one morning and came to work and missed the long shadow of the Washington Monument, walked right through where the shade should have been. Toby is different this time, and so is the President, and Sam doesn't know where he starts and stops between the two of them, not anymore.

Toby says something like: _he'll do fine_, like an echo of Josh. _Does anyone believe this President can't take it from there?_ Sam can't believe that they are choosing a time like this to become optimists. He can't believe they are choosing to rely on blind faith on the occasion of what actually is the most important speech of Jed Bartlet's political career. And he can't believe this is the time his own faith is lacking. These are the times we choose, he says to himself. He mutters it under his breath.

"Huh?"

"Nothing."

"The times we choose for what?"

"Nothing."

"Sam."

"For losing faith."

He looks up at Toby, from the couch with his laptop on his knees, tired and frustrated and hurt. And Toby stares back at him.

"Faith in what?" Toby's voice is soft, like a caress, and Sam closes his eyes.

"In us."

Sam feels the couch shift as Toby comes to sit beside him.

"Is this about ... Is this -- "

"No. Yes. Kinda both. You know?"

"Yeah."

"You know, I can't form sentences which don't contain the word 'censure'. It's weird. It's been happening for the last hour. Since we ran out of coffee."

"I'll go get some more," Toby says, sitting perfectly still.

"It's okay."

"Okay."

"Toby?"

"Yeah?"

"Can we do this?"

"Yes."

"I mean -- "

"You ask me this, every year."

"This is only our fourth time ... "

"You ask me this every year. I'm beginning to think it's something pathological."

"No. This time is different."

"Why?"

"The censure, the MS, the ... " Sam takes a deep breath, "The fact that my father has been fucking around for as long as I've been alive -- "

"Still not over that?"

"The ... _God_. I don't know. Everything. Just the whole force of -- "

"Sam."

"Toby, I can't -- "

"Sam."

"I'm just -- "

"I miss you."

Sam feels his gut twisting, a little place just under his diaphragm, pulling, like someone's fingers in his waistband. Toby's voice is like the whisper of water, a susurrus that gets into Sam's skin. He says, "It's not ... It's not just that."

"No, I know. It's that, plus everything which has happened in the last year. So, not much."

"Toby."

"Sam, _he_ has faith. Even if you don't."

"And that's all that matters?"

"Yes."

"Toby -- "

"He's the one giving the damn speech, Sam. If he's ready, it's done. And we move on."

Sam nods, trying to make his face expressionless. "We move on."

"Yeah."

"Okay."

He's not prepared for the way Toby's fingers stroke his cheek, just the corner, near his mouth, where the fold shadows. When he looks up, Toby's eyes are sad, and so tired that he can't hide it. Sam lowers his head and Toby leans forward and where Sam is expecting a kiss which will overpower him there is only gentleness and guileless honesty. He shifts, slipping down the arm of the couch until he is underneath Toby's body and puts his arms around Toby's neck and carries on kissing him, quite hoping that he won't be asked to stop.

They don't do more - though Sam's lips are red and Toby has an erection he is trying to hide by the time they are done. Sam just finds himself wondering where the last kisses are. Was that all there will be, or will something else will happen to change the definition? It's enough to make him want to say: stop.

*

"Give us the real one."

He is aware of the tension in Josh's shoulders, the way his face has tightened; he can feel CJ's fingers clench in and out of fists very close to his own; he knows without looking that Sam has closed his eyes.

"Strong leader ... Sixty-nine percent."

Relief is the strongest of all the tastes in the atmosphere, not so bitter as triumph and sweeter than elation. Toby realises his hands are shaking, just a little, because of the caffeine in his system probably and nothing more than that. He shoves them deep in his pockets anyway. They all look impossibly happy and because they do, he can smile. Sam's eyes are open again now and they hold his across the three steps worth of corridor which separate them. He's smiling that smile which is brighter than the sun and CJ is grinning at them in a way which would have given her away no matter what he has learned these past weeks. Sam's arms come around him suddenly and he leans into an embrace that he means to imbue with his usual slightly embarrassed discomfort and is surprised by Sam's strong arms holding him, at an angle, like he is tipping Toby over at the climax of a dance, as though he will follow it with a kiss. Toby hides against his shoulder for a moment, still smiling. He can't help it now.

Sam whispers, breath tickling, "Good speech, partner," and Toby can't answer him or look at his sunshine smile. Sam hurts his eyes.

He is hardly aware of the President's arm around his shoulders though he can smell Jed Bartlet's cologne and knows his face is pulling off 'uncomfortable and embarrassed' very nicely now. His hand is very warm on Toby's back and his voice nuzzles the back of Toby's throat. The small section of corridor swells and all noise ceases. He closes his eyes.

*

CJ dances with him later, and better this time; she has had nothing but water all day. Her hands are cool - one on the back of his neck and the other holding his shoulder lightly. He thinks the smile she is wearing is genuine.

"You did a good job, Toby."

"Thank you."

"I didn't mean the speech."

He stares at her, tilting his head back a little further than is comfortable at such close quarters.

"You did good."

He lets out a small, silent sigh. "Yeah."

She bows her head a little and he accepts her kisses exactly as he should: like a man who forgets how intoxicating the press of skin on skin can be in between times. Her mouth is warm and slightly sticky - lipstick and a recent nothing-but-Coke - and she kisses his without self-consciousness and Toby finds himself straining to follow her as she slips out of his hands and goes to twirl Josh round the centre of the Bullpen. He watches her, and manages a smile. He is sure he wouldn't be able to rouse one for anyone else.

His office is dark and oddly cold when he re-enters it, as if no-one has been in there all day. He switches on the light and isn't remotely surprised to find Sam sitting on his couch with an old, hand-written draft of the State of the Union (Toby thinks he can see a big red number 11 at the top corner in his own handwriting) in his hands. His lips are moving over the words. Toby looks at him.

"Don't mourn the draft, Sam," he says, softly. Sam doesn't look up; he doesn't seem surprised or excited by Toby's entrance. It's as if he has been anticipating it.

He sighs. "No, I'm not."

"What are you doing?"

"Just reading. We forget them when they're done."

"We don't."

"We never go -- "

"_We_ don't. You and I."

Sam looks up at him from the couch and Toby's chest tightens at the sight of Sam's eyes, where the blue has all gone to black.

"No."

"So, put it away. Okay?"

"When did everything become a metaphor?"

Toby smiles, mildly surprised that he can summon the energy. "You're the poet. Give yourself an answer."

"I can't."

"So. Put it away."

"I don't remember when I fell in love with you. Whether it was a particular thing or a moment or ... " He looks down at the speech. "I don't remember, and I wish I did."

"Yeah."

"Toby?"

"Yeah?"

"Will you ... " He sighs, looks down at his hands and the sheaf of papers, then back up at Toby. "Will you take me home?"

"How old are you, Sam?" Toby asks, trying to smile; trying to make him smile.

"Will you take me?"

"Yes."

"I haven't ... I mean, I'm not over -- "

"I know, Sam. Get your coat."

"Are we going?"

"We're going."

"Okay."

Sam looks as though he might fall asleep in the car. He turns to face the window rather than talk to Toby as he drives and mostly Toby is glad, because he doesn't think there's a thing he could say to make up tonight to Sam, anything to water down the cocktail of elation and disappointment. He is feeling it too. There is one more thing they need each other for in these days in which they do their most important work: after the high comes the next day, the next hour; the minutes when they catch themselves worrying about the draft, only to know that it's gone. And he's right - once they are gone they are forgotten and replaced in an endless, thankless cycle. Sam is not the only one in mourning.

He drives around for a while, taking care not to get stuck in Dupont Circle or anywhere in the city proper and wondering how long it will take Sam to notice that they are not making any progress towards his part of town. They have driven past Toby's place twice before Sam raises his head.

"This isn't the way to my apartment," he says, in a thick, sleepy voice.

"Well done."

"This is the way to _your_ apartment."

"Yes."

"Toby?"

"It doesn't ... It needn't mean anything. Just come in with me."

Sam looks at him, stares at him. Toby takes his eyes off the road for a moment to return the look.

"I never want to be alone. After."

"I know."

"I usually get drunk."

Toby chuckles. "Yeah. I know."

Sam smiles, then sighs.

"Get drunk with me," Toby says.

"I don't think that's the best idea," Sam says, sounding weary already.

"One drink. Then I'll take you back."

"Could I stay on your couch? I like your couch."

"You have my ex-wife's taste in furniture."

"Really?"

"Yeah."

"It's because we're both WASPs."

"That must be it."

*

One drink turns to three or four; Toby loses count. One kiss turns into a flush that rises up his throat and across his cheeks, burying his head in Sam's chest. He is aggressive and full of lust and takes Sam's thin wrists in his hands and holds him still. And Sam lets him, with his eyes closed and his lips parted, because he is tired and unhappy, and able to indulge Toby anything. Toby lets his fingers linger over the undoing of Sam's shirt buttons, stroking each piece of skin, kissing it pink and sore. They both have their eyes closed, feeling their way like blind men: Sam nuzzles Toby's hipbones, opening his mouth over the curve as though he will drink the taste in; Toby with violent hands sure and true inside Sam's pants, makes him come almost brutally. Sam says _fuck_ over and over in a hoarse voice which Toby doesn't recognise; it sounds more like the way he would say it. He strokes Sam's throat with fingers wet with come and whispers _shhh_.

They end up curled uncomfortably together on Toby's bed. But it is the best night's sleep Toby remembers in the last few months. When he wakes up, Sam is gone.

3.

The answering machine beside his bed clicks into life after the seventh ring and Sam is far enough away from sleep and in a good enough mood that he listens anyway, albeit with his back turned. His eyes open and he props himself up on one elbow when he realises whose voice it is.

"Sam, if you're there, _don't_ pick up. I just did something ... I said some things ... I was really stupid, in the Oval Office, just now. And -- " His breath rattles down the line and Sam frowns, with one hand resting flat on his bed sheets. " ... And I wouldn't be ... I wouldn't be too surprised if I get fired some time in the next week or so -- "

Sam picks up the phone.

"Toby?"

"I said _don't_ pick up."

"You think I'm going to sit here and just listen to that?"

"Did it occur to you that perhaps that's what I _wanted_ you to do?"

"Yes, of course it did. Toby, tell me -- "

"I am ... suicidally stupid."

"With the President?"

"Who else am I usually suicidally stupid around?"

"Andy?"

"Sam."

"I'm sorry. What did you say?"

"It doesn't matter."

"It _doesn't_ matter?"

"No. Forget it."

"Toby!"

"When ... when you heard ... those things about your father ... "

"Yeah?"

"When you asked me about my father ... "

"And you changed the subject?"

"Yeah."

"By kissing me."

"Yes."

"You talked to the President ... about his father?"

"You could say that."

"What did you say?"

Sam can hear his exhalation. "I ... suggested that he wasn't what you'd call a model patriarch."

"Do you _know_ anything about the President's father?"

"Not really."

"You guessed?"

"Yeah."

"Good guess?"

"Apparently."

"Toby, what did you say?"

"I don't know ... why I thought -- "

"Toby."

"Sorry. I'm sorry."

"Toby -- "

"Look, I'll see you tomorrow. I'm sorry ... I'm sorry I woke you."

"Toby -- "

But the line is dead.

*

He is ashamed of his first impulse - of calling Sam at all. He is ashamed of the fact that after three glasses of scotch he is not drunk and nor have his hands stopped shaking. He is more than ashamed of the words still unquiet in his head. His lips keep forming the worst of them, unconsciously, so he cannot deny that they were always his. They blaze behind his eyes when they are closed and stop him from sleeping.

Those words in another person's mouth, he thinks, might have been something softer; something that drew two men together: a hand stretched across a table, in secret, but for certain. Another person might have started with: _I think I understand_.

In fact Sam is right: he knows next to nothing about the President's father except what he has picked up from whispers and dark comments left hanging at the end of seemingly innocent sentences. Everything else is what he has imagined or thought he saw reflected in a man he has loved for what seems like a long time. As he looks back now, afraid of the night closing and morning's arrival, four years and some doesn't seem so much; not long enough to decide if he deserves to be called the real thing.

Loving a man seems so much harder. So much more pathetic when things start on their inevitable slide, because you should have been able to hold them in your hands; should have been able to find the words or gestures to communicate because these are your own: strange brother and not-quite father; surrogate family he never asked for and never expected. He didn't know he wanted them but he should be able to find the right words for them, shouldn't trip over his tongue and his sex and his desires every time he opens his mouth to them; should understand them. But he doesn't.

Loving a man is so much harder and not only because it ought to be easier. Loving a man is about old pain and old darkness he cannot forget and all the things about himself he has never understood, running like wires through his chest; hot and shining, white bright. Jed Bartlet is one of those things and Toby isn't good enough at lying to himself not to know that he's been a little in love all this time, with a father he was stupid enough to think he knew better than the last one; someone he could push and pull at and never fear he would rip to pieces, like paper in his hands; and the Sacred King - made out of magic and the music of their words, his and Sam's, like intoxication. And every time he dies he is remade by two guys in a dimly lit room: stage and pulpit and platform, all built out of words. He is hope and frustration, just like Sam is. And Toby can't seem to write a word without thinking of one or the other, usually of both.

He would like to go to sleep but can't, because the unwritten words are noisy and heavy in his head, forming on his lips as he yawns. He settles for staring at the ceiling and trying to tell himself that it isn't spinning; he's not drunk enough for that.

*

Sam knocks on the door softly and only the chink in his blinds which lets in the light of his white shirt persuades Toby to answer, "Come in."

"Hey," he says.

"Hi."

"You feel any better?"

"Sam?"

"You might not remember, but I have the first part of your confession on tape, so don't try any funny business."

"I refuse to even begin this conversation."

"What stupid thing did you say?"

"What the hell are you talking about?"

"Oh come on. There's no way you drank that much. Although I think I can smell the scotch from over here. But mostly: fess up."

Toby sighs. "You didn't forget, huh?"

"No."

"Damn."

"Tell me what you said."

"Nothing."

"Toby!"

"I asked him if his father ever hit him. And the answer I got suggests to me that I was not drawing entirely erroneous conclusions."

"Yeah, and?"

Toby manages a smile. "I wondered if it might be linked to his speech in Iowa. To his lack of a speech in Iowa. One more win, one more election."

Sam frowns. "To compensate for ... "

"Yeah," Toby says, nodding, staring at the floor.

"To get his father ... to love him?"

Toby frowns. "What exactly did I say last night?"

"I'm a good guesser, Toby. You never believe that about me."

"Yes. You clearly are."

"You said that to him?"

"As good as."

"Jesus."

Toby raises his eyebrows, lets his face go blank.

"I thought you were exaggerating."

"When do I do that?"

"You do it. Just ... not usually where it makes that much difference. Have you seen him this morning?"

"No."

"I guess you wouldn't."

"No."

"Is there anything else you want to tell me?"

Toby raises his eyebrows again. "Such as?"

"Such as what might have brought on this exciting new field of suicide psychoanalysis?"

"No."

"Toby."

"It really wasn't anything new, Sam."

"Nothing to do with, say, the father that you refuse to talk about?"

"No. Absolutely nothing to do with that."

"You could tell me," Sam says.

Toby allows himself to look up at his Deputy.

Sam shrugs. "Well, you could."

"Because you told me about your father?"

"No, because you have these ... issues. Obviously. Instead of taking them out on the President. And getting fired."

"Issues?"

"Yes."

Toby sighs and rubs the heel of his hand to his forehead. "Why do you -- "

"It might help."

"Why?"

"I hear that it helps. Sometimes."

"Sam -- "

"Toby, you called _me_. Which suggests that the thought at least occurred to you. It doesn't have to be a long conversation."

"Okay."

Sam looks up at him, frowns. "Okay?"

Toby nods, slightly, once. "Okay."

"Huh. I wasn't ... so much expecting that."

"I like to surprise you. Sometimes."

Sam smiles. Toby expects him to lean over and try for a kiss, but he doesn't. It seems he's taught the kid well.

"You said he went to jail," Sam says, softly and a little too quickly. "What for?"

"Mostly ... well, murder. Being an accessory."

Sam's eyes are steady and dry and blue. It still hurts to look at him, but he doesn't say anything or let his eyes widen in disbelief. He's a good kid - always listening for the story first.

"He worked for Murder Incorporated. For a while. Not for long."

"When you were a kid?"

"Yeah. Not for long. But ... he wasn't so hot at it."

"He got caught?"

"Yeah. Him and some others."

"How old were you?"

"Eight."

"But the ... Weren't they all gone by then?"

"Yeah, they were. They'd been closed down mostly by the time I was two or three. But that doesn't stop people noticing and talking. They remembered him. They sent him to jail."

"You don't sound ... You don't sound as though you missed him."

"I didn't."

"You sound as though you hated him."

"I did."

"You sound as though you still do, Toby."

He smiles as he tries to meet Sam's eyes. "Yeah. We don't talk."

"Did he hurt you? When you were little, I mean. Did he hit you?"

"No, he didn't hit me. He loved me."

"And of course that's much worse," Sam says. He is not smiling.

"I didn't _want_ to tell you."

"No, of course not."

"I didn't understand."

"You were eight years old, Toby."

Toby looks up at him and smiles. He knows it's a dark, twisting little smile with no light in it, and he knows where he got it from.

"Yeah."

"And you still feel guilty."

Toby raises his eyes yet again.

"Because you were angry with him and he still loved you. And you couldn't give him love in return."

Toby hears a little noise in the back of his throat, a little scoff. "Am I being diagnosed?"

"Just a theory."

"Not a wholly bad one."

Sam smiles: a slow, opening smile which glows in his face. "I get some practice."

"The guy. The ATVA guy."

Sam nods. "Stanley Keyworth."

"You still see him?"

Sam nods again, the smile is gone now. "Yeah, I do."

"You didn't tell me."

"No."

Toby nods, happy with the lie on his face. "You still ... need to."

"Every now and then."

"More lately or -- "

"Toby."

"Yeah. Sorry. I'm ... sorry."

"You want his number?"

"No. I really don't."

Sam nods, almost smiling again. "Yeah. I figured." He reaches for the door, turns the handle in his fingers.

"Hey, where are you going?"

"I'm leaving you alone. I thought that's what you'd want."

"You haven't shown me the new draft yet. Of the thing."

"The thing?"

"Yeah."

"Right."

"So go get it. And come back."

Sam smiles, nods slowly, once. "Okay."


End file.
